Page 97 - November 2020

November 2020 97
Litterateur

THE CYNICAL REVOLUTIONARY

A two-page article was devoted to the event. Under the photo of each
speaker his or her name and credentials were highlighted in bold print.
There was the trade union leader, Johnny Somerville, whose train driver’s
strike had ground the city to a halt, Jehosophat McClintock, the priggish
journalist from “The “Irish Times” and Perceville Chichester Lamberton, the
media friendly TD with a law degree and a fancy Anglo-Irish surname.
Neither Phonsie nor May seemed to recognize any of them. “Oh look,” May
said, “Johnny Stones is speaking. I remember him hurling for Kilkenny,
Phonsie.”

“Aye, an’ he was a yella enough crather an’ all, May.”

Much reaching for bags and banners and “oh I do beg your pardon” type
apologies as people donned overcoats and plastic macs in the tight space
let us know that the train waspulling in to Heuston station. I wished my
travelling companions good luck at the march.

“Maybe you’ll join in yourself, after you get your natty and tempy,”

Phonsie invited me,with a smile.

“I’ll be thinking about it,” I said, ‘four o’clock in The Green?

Both were nodding, eyes fixed on me, glistening. Phonsie reached out a
weathered hand that I instinctively grasped. May raised her arms to give
me the kind of hug that wasn’t part of the protocol in The Tara Street
Collective.

‘And we’ll get a cup for your tea,’ May called back to me as we parted
company.